


To Kiss A Rose.

by RespecterGadget



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26361739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RespecterGadget/pseuds/RespecterGadget
Summary: She hasn't been 'right' lately. Something was wrong. Nightmares of a stormy night plagued Widowmaker's mind and she somehow woke up in the captivity of a peculiar cowboy.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	1. Sleepin' Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> "I'm RespecterGadget, at your service."  
> https://twitter.com/TheAtomicTwins/status/1189775953351692288

* * *

It was a stormy night. Lightning and the distant crackle of thunder, with rain trickling down the window as the silhouette of a woman approached the bed. Dark, _it was so dark._ Her footsteps were silent, but there was a ringing in her ears. Her mind was empty as her delicate fingers slid across the bed frame and reached for the bedside table. A knife emerged from the drawer before she quietly and slowly pulled back the covers. 

_"He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance."_  
The phrase echoed in her head as she raised her arms, bringing the sharp knife with her.

The man, his face, she knew him once. His warm voice quickly heightened to a hollowing scream when the knife entered his eye and pushed deep into its socket, waking him from his deep rest. Her grip was strong, as if she knew how it was done, _as if she had done it before._ In his last moments, he pleaded. Called a name she no longer recognized and she did not falter. Blood rushing through her veins, her heart beat fast as she sat on the edge of the bed staring at the lifeless body under her. 

It was a stormy night and the room was silent once again. Her job was done.

* * *

  
Jesse McCree wasn't the kind of man who believed in coincidence or fate, nor was he particularly religious. If he was any of those things he might have believed there was a good reason he wound up in that particular dead end alleyway on that particular night. It might even have been comforting to think it was some sort of greater plan behind it all, that he was Meant to find her there. Her. Windowmaker, or Amelie LeCroix, as she used to be known as. She was bloody, bruised and beaten and her life was fading fast. He thought about leaving her there to die, because she deserved it after all the crap she’d done, but he knew she would be more valuable alive, especially if he could get her to spill some secrets about her organization. Maybe he could even sell it to Overwatch or maybe do some actual good himself, for once, if he managed to get her to spill on Talon. 

After some minor deliberation on the matter, he carried her home to his lair and handcuffed her right hand crudely to a shelf before dragging out a health repair kit and starting to scrounge around in it for anything to help with deep bullet wounds. Her entire back was full of them, small wounds that seemed to be from some sort of shotgun. It was strange to see her so weak and helpless, considering how much pain she'd caused for basically everyone in the world, at least everyone he’d ever known. Still, he didn't really feel much sympathy for her, even now. 

He slowly picked out the bullets from their wound with some tweezers and once the hole was empty of metal, quickly sealed them shut with a bullet patch. A clever invention, designed to keep the blood in and help the wound heal properly. He usually stocked plenty, he needed them in his line of work. She didn't seem to notice, body and mind seemingly still in a state of shock that stopped her from waking up. He wasn’t sure if she was ever waking up or if he had just wasted all of the bullet patches on what was essentially a corpse. It was hard to tell that she wasn’t, her skin was cold and blue already which gave her that “dead” look, but she did have a faint breath so he was hoping he could get some value out of her yet. Nothing else to do for her but wait.

As he went about his usual day activities, he kept an eye on the guest of honor to see if she would wake and to check that the patches were working as intended. He wasn't sure how much blood she had lost, but he wasn't about to risk killing her faster by trying an in-home blood transfusion without a trained medic present and he sure as hell wasn't going to risk everyone else's lives by bringing her to an actual hospital. 

The first few times she started twitching in her sleep, he instinctively pulled his Peacekeeper revolver and pointed it at her, but as the day crept on he got more and more used to the twitching and slight movement and would no longer do more than glance her way, gun safe and still on hip. It wasn't until he started cooking dinner she seemed to become more awake, the smell of the chili seemingly pulling at her consciousness somewhat - or maybe it was her body reacting to hunger, though he wasn't sure if whatever science mumbo jumbo process Talon put her through meant she still ate proper human food or could sustain herself on murder alone. Those guys did more than enough nature defying experiments that he honestly wasn't sure if there was any human left in her. 

* * *

By the time she opened her eyes, McCree had grown accustomed to her stirring enough that it took him a little while to notice. When he finally did, it was because he could hear her mumble something inaudible, and looked curiously over to her. She stirred in a state of half-consciousness, her cuffed arm jerking slightly, the chains rattled. Her breathing became more erratic as her expression was dazed and her eyes slowly opened. 

_“Je s… suis.. Je suis navrée—”_ and with a jolt she seemed to be fully awake, slowly taking in her surroundings, trying to recollect her thoughts. Where... was she?

Her golden eyes scanned the room and quickly found his face. And despite her condition, her stare was piercing and cold and filled with hatred. She switfly became acutely aware of her situation, she was being held captive by this dumb American cowboy. A dumb American cowboy in a novelty “Kiss the Chef”-apron, no less. Her throat was dry and it hurt when she tried to swallow.

“ _What_ do you—”

“Oh good. Sleepin’ beauty’s finally awake.” he jeered and cut her off while stirring the pot of chili, the smell of the spices filled the room. “Thought you were dead and that I’d have wasted my time.” He lifted the wooden spoon to taste his cooking. “Mmm, that hits the spot. Always knew I’d make a good cook.” he hummed, like he had forgotten that a sniper assassin, _the_ Widowmaker, was handcuffed to his bedside bookshelf. But she made her presence known with an awful racket while struggling to free her hand.

“Y’want some?”

“Uncuff me, stupid American.”

“Well, suit yerself. More for me.” 

She swore under her breath while he spooned some of his chili into a bowl, but she didn’t drop her stare. He stopped for a second and eyed her, before pulling out another bowl, meant for her, and filling that as well.

“Look, you’ve been out for a day, and that's just since I found you. You gotta be hungry by now,” he said, while deliberating with himself how to give her the food. He decided that the bowl itself was a risky enough weapon in her hands, so he opted to not give her a spoon to eat with. Instead he put it on the floor and kicked it towards her. He was reasonably sure she wasn't actually hiding any weapons in her suit, that thing wasn’t exactly built with pockets. He was also certain she was hungry enough to be slightly feral and he absolutely didn't want to get bitten by an angry french woman. 

He pulled off his apron and dropped it on the counter before sitting down by his tiny kitchen table and exclaiming, with a very thick american accent, “Bon Appetit”. He nodded at her food before digging into his bowl. She stared coldly at him, but eventually the hunger won out and she climbed down from the bed to sit on the floor where the food was and started inelegantly drinking the thick chili, her right hand struggling against the cuff, now a little too high up to be in any way comfortable. She wasn't sure if it was good or if she was just incredibly hungry, but she had to assume the latter as she refused to think the crude cowboy had any sort of skills in the art of cooking. Cooking required finesse, and he had none of that.

As she ate she could slowly feel her energy returning. Her back ached, the pain big enough that any lesser woman would have fainted. She didn’t remember what caused it, but whatever happened to her, she didn’t want to believe it was him— there was no way a man dressed as a cowboy could have gotten the upper hand on her. She had no idea how she’d found herself in the company of this man and honestly couldn’t understand half of the nonsense he was spouting, but she felt her cold thin knife against the skin of her arm and she knew none of that mattered. She would soon kill him and escape without anyone knowing, it’s what she did best. _He just had to come a little bit closer._

He was scruffy, unkempt, _unsightly._ It wouldn't be too challenging to end his life, and certainly not exciting enough to make her feel alive. But she kept her eyes on him and made sure to observe and learn his movements. Her stare was cold, veiling her thoughts and hiding her plans. Even if he was no threat, even if he was insignificant, she had to keep her guard up. 

“Y’want seconds?” he asks before shoving a giant spoonful into his mouth. Uncivilized and inelegant. He disgusted her, but she didn’t say a word in response. “What, cat got your tongue?”, he said and got up to grab her bowl so he could give her a refill. After all, he didn’t want her starving to death before she could give him anything useful. As he bent down and reached for her bowl, she quickly got up on her feet and pulled out a sleek, thin knife from under the sleeve of her right arm. Cold steel cut through the air and almost reached McCree’s throat before a sharp pain pulsated from her back through her body as she bent over to kill him and he quickly disarmed her, escaping with only a shallow cut on his cheek. She winced in pain, and fell back down on the bed. A visible look of confusion found its way to her face as it felt like her wounds were spreading to her sides. She didn’t realise how weak she had become.

“Woah, there! Patients shouldn't be playing with sharp objects.” McCree laughed a little and stepped back, her knife still in his rough hands. “Y’got any more of those on you?” He looked her in the eyes, trying to discern some sort of expression that would betray that information, but saw only anger. Remind me never to play hold’em with this one, he thought to himself, imagining her in a casino for a second before shrugging off the idea. 

“Va te faire foutre, connard!” she swore and tried to kick him even though he was of her range and she was lying down. She pulled violently against the handcuff, her breathing was heavy as a bullet of sweat rolled down her forehead. 

He dragged up the first aid kit again, slightly annoyed at the cut he’d gotten through sheer recklessness. He should have known better than to underestimate her and would have to make absolutely sure to not do so again. As he rummaged through the first aid kit looking for a bandage to put over the cut he also counted the patches he had left and made a mental note to get it restocked as soon as possible. She'd need at least a couple of changes of her patches to avoid having her die from infection, but he didn't like the idea of leaving her here unattended and awake and he certainly wasn’t happy about the thought of changing them when she was conscious. Why don't I have any of Ana’s sleep darts at hand, he thought, putting a small bandage on his cheek. 

He tried to think about a plan for how to get his first aid kit restocked. He knew she wouldn't scream for help, at least. She was smart enough to know she had no friends in this country and certainly too proud and arrogant to ask for help even if she needed it. So maybe leaving her would be fine, if he just made sure she couldn't get out of the handcuff or reach anything in the room to help her break free. He’d already cleared the shelf she was bound to of anything that could be a weapon in her hands. Maybe if he was lucky she’d fall asleep naturally and let him slip out undetected. 

He cleaned up the chili bowls without re-offering her a second portion of food and took a look outside. It was starting to get dark as the evening was closing in. He’d spent his entire day nursing the assassin back to life and he needed to head out pretty soon if he were to be able to both scrounge up some cash and subsequently spend it on medpacks at the only pharmacy in town that would sell to him instead of turning him in to the cops. 

“I have to pop out for a bit, darlin’. Don't you go anywhere, I will be back before you know it.” he muttered lowly as he put on his hat and headed out to do some minor illegal deeds for some meds. 


	2. The Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some questions are asked and some answers are given.

He returns to the tiny apartment at a little past midnight, medkit supplies stashed away safely in his bag. His hand was placed securely over his revolver, just in case she had found a way to break free of the restraints and was waiting to get a serving of sweet revenge on him for tying her up. He opened the door slowly and peered towards the bed, where she had evidently collapsed and was lying, unmoving, her wounded back fully exposed to the world.  _ She looked almost vulnerable. _

He stepped through the door and shut it closed behind him, silently. Hand still on gun, he put the bag of supplies on the kitchen table and grabbed the broom and poked her with it, ever so slightly, to see if she would wake up easily or was faking being knocked out. She wasn’t moving, not other than her breathing.. He walked over to her, eyes fixed on her checking for any sign of other movement, but all he saw was the deep and steady rise and fall of her chest. He walked back and left the gun on the table next to the supplies, and grabbed the new box of patches and some antiseptic with him. When he double checked her handcuff, he noticed she was heavily bruised and bleeding on her wrist, probably from struggling with the cuff. “Damn, she sure put up a fight,” the Cowboy mumbled to himself, and felt bad for her for a moment. He paused to consider swapping the handcuff to her other hand, but once he remembered that he only had the one pair, he decided against it. There was no way he could risk her waking up while he was in the process of changing it. He also took the opportunity to pat her down properly, searching for any other hidden knives or other weapons. 

Satisfied he hadn’t missed any hidden deadly weaponry, he sat down on the edge of the bed and started slowly peeling off the old patches off her back. Those things were pretty magical, and the wounds looked a lot better than they had this morning when he originally bandaged them. He poured the antiseptic on his cleanest piece of cloth and started dabbing them on her wounds, one arm placed firmly on her shoulders to hold her down if she woke up from the sudden sting. And it was a good thing he was prepared, because the moment the cloth touched her skin, she immediately jolted and sat up. 

“Calm down, I’m not trying to hurt you. If I did, this would hurt a lot more.” he said, but there wasn’t really any edge to his voice. She tried squirming, but quickly realised it hurt more if he had to physically hold her down while trying to clean her back and, for the second time in 24 hours, swallowed her pride, but not without mumbling “ _ fils de pute”  _ under her breath at him. “That’s a good girl.” he said, a little sarcastically, and went back to cleaning her wounds, his left hand relaxing a bit more on her shoulders than it did just a minute ago. 

After cleaning all the tiny wounds he started the tedious process of applying the new patches, one by one. The clock on the wall was ticking away, almost hitting 2 am before he finished applying all of them. Finally, he cleaned off the blood on her wounded arm, grabbed all the wrappers and eased off the bed, hand still on her shoulders until he was safely on his feet. “Don’t move and I’ll bandage the wounds on your arm too,” he said, going over to the medkit and scrounging through it looking for some normal band aids. When he looked up, she was sitting with her feet curled in front of her, staring at him. “All the same to me,” he shrugged, and put the bandaids back down, along with the leftovers of the new stuff he’d bought. He grabbed his gun and put it back in the holster on his hip and put the medkit back in its place above the kitchen counter. 

Grabbing one of the kitchen chairs and putting it with the back in front of her before sitting down on it backwards, thinking how to best proceed with the interrogation. She was still sitting in the same position, legs folded in front of her and her free arm holding them. He’d never seen her insecure before, but then again he’d not seen her more than a few times in battle. Most of the time,  _ she _ was the one who saw people, after which they would never be able to see again. He knew he’d never have a chance like this again, the chance to get some intel on his old Blackwatch colleagues. Maybe even a hiding spot, if he was lucky. 

“So, I guess it’s safe to say yer not gettin’ out of that cuff,” he started, and nodded towards her hand. “So I think it’s time you and I have a bit of a chit chat.”

He paused a bit to give the statement a little bit of weight. He really hadn’t thought through how he was going to approach this, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to start by asking nicely. Hard to escalate an interrogation if you start out with something bad. “You were ditched in an alleyway with tons of tiny bullet wounds in yer back. Sure, you got a lot of enemies, and it could be any one of ‘em, but we both know a guy whose weapon of choice leaves wounds like that. Mind tellin’ me where I could find him?” 

She stared at him and her expression changed, just a little, betraying her surprise. She could feel that she had more than one wound in her back, but she had not put together what, or more importantly,  _ who  _ could have been the cause. She was not sure if this information changed anything, she was still a prisoner in the Cowboy’s filthy housing. But she suddenly was unsure if she had anywhere to go if she could break free. If it was true that she was shot by one of her trusted allies, then it would mean she had nowhere to go. But she had no confirmation, even though the pain in her back seemed to support the theory. 

McCree looked at her, trying to scan her face again for some sort of acknowledgement of what he had just asked. She looked at him blankly before responding with a scoff.

“I have many enemies, why would I betray Talon over your  _ theory  _ about Reaper? You have every reason to want to turn me against him.” 

“That’s true, but I ain’t lyin’ about your wounds. I’m sure you can feel’em, and yer too clever to let just anyone get the drop on ya so the only logical conclusion is it was someone you trusted.” 

“I do not trust anyone.” she hissed.

“An ally, at least. Someone that made ya drop that guard, just a little. And I don’t think many people would fit in that category outside of yer little organization. Which leads me to my earlier conclusion - Gabriel Reyes did this to you. And so, we have a mutual enemy. So I’ll ask ya again: where can I find him?”

“If your theory is correct, what makes you think I would know?” 

“You probably don’t know where he is at this very moment, but I’m pretty sure he thinks yer dead, so in no condition to talk. You probably have  _ some _ idea ‘bout some of his more famous hangouts. Like Talon’s headquarters. And you were almost dead, by the way, so a little gratitude for yer life would be in order.” 

A smirk found its way onto her face, “What would you do if I told you? Storm the front gates with your little toy gun?” she laughed a little, and nodded to his Peacekeeper. “That idea alone makes it tempting to tell you.” 

“No need to worry your pretty head ‘bout how I’m going to get in and out of there, I promise I’ll be fine.” His tone had changed a little. It was light, even almost flirty. He really enjoyed this quick back and forth. He always enjoyed a good duel even if it wasn’t with guns, but words. “But I can’t storm any castles until you tell me where they are. Or do I have to… convince you?” his hand brushed the revolver ever so slightly, trying to make his words have weight. 

She wasn’t convinced he would follow up on the implication of violence. It was somehow hard for the little man to sound threatening, doubly so because he was sitting the wrong way on a chair wearing a full cowboy outfit. So instead of dignifying his nonsense with a response, she simply stared back at him, unflinching. Any sign of weakness she displayed earlier had vanished off her face. 

They sat like that for a while, just looking at each other. It was silent enough you could hear a pin drop and hear the cogs turn in the Cowboy’s head as he was trying to think out his next move. He shouldn’t have gone to the empty threat, he knew he either had to follow up on it or he’d just lost the entire interrogation and he was very sure he didn’t have the stomach for torture. “Fine, you win.” he said, “For now.” And lifted his hands into a shrug. “I’ll just call Morrison to pick you up instead. I’m sure Overwatch will have a field day discussing what to do with you.” 

“Overwatch is no more.” she said. “You and your Blackwatch colleguages made certain of that.” He winced, not managing to hide the reaction and a tiny smile formed on her lips in response. Her aim was flawless, even when there was no bullet involved, and she would hit him where it hurt in any way she could. 

Still, he knew he had the upper hand. He had no idea Talon didn’t know about Overwatch’s resurgence yet, he thought it was a big enough rumour that even they would know. But apparently they didn’t spend enough time slumming it with the regular folks, so the whispered excitement about the heroes returning might not have reached them in their ivory tower. “Technically, you’re correct,” he said, “Officially there ain’t an Overwatch. Unofficially, though? Hear they’re makin’ a comeback. And I’m sure they’d love to announce their return with a win like the capture of a prominent assassin.” 

Surprised and a little annoyed, she leaned her head against the filthy wall and sighed. “Talon do not stay in one place for long. They would have already moved on, doubly so if they are behind my  _ botched _ assassination.” she said, exhausted, “So you can put me out of my misery now, cowboy.” Her eyes on the revolver. To his own shock, he believed her. Both about the location and the fact that a part of her wanted him to shoot her. For the first time since he found her in that alley, he felt legitimately and truly sorry for her. She suddenly seemed painfully human to him, blue skin and all. He was at a loss for words. And, if he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t really thought through what he’d do if she turned out to be completely useless to him in the end. He had been bluffing about calling Morrison, he didn’t have his contact details and even if he did he didn’t think he’d be allowed to just walk off freely after the dropoff. The bounty on his head could help pay for the entire resurgence of Overwatch. Probably.

“Hey now…” he said, putting his hands up as if he was calming down cattle. He wasn’t sure where to go with that, so he just left the words hanging in the air. 


End file.
